


One Night in Maryless Months

by SoWrites



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Pining!Sherlock, Pre-Christmas HLV, Sherlock's Perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoWrites/pseuds/SoWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had been months of silence between John and "Mary" before Christmas. Sherlock spent most of this time in the hospital, knowing that he was in love with John and that he might now have a chance with him.</p>
<p>Once Sherlock finally comes home to 221B, it' s not long before he gets a visitor. Decisions and plans must be made, no matter the toll it takes on Sherlock.</p>
<p>Takes place before Christmas in HLV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night in Maryless Months

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, I'm SoWrites, or Zellamons on Tumblr. This is my first story for this fandom, so I tried to experiment a bit before jumping headfirst into smut and other goodies. I did a lot of playing around with the perspective, trying to get it to be similar to how Sherlock's mind would work. He would make instant connections, I think, with things he's heard.
> 
> This was also inspired by many metas out there, but what really got me to write it was, oddly enough, A Study in Chairs by Niphrehdil on Tumblr.
> 
> Obviously, I don't own Sherlock or BBC...

The sitting room in 221B Baker Street showed every sign of being frequented by at least two people. Multiple cups and dishes were scattered about, take-away containers littered every table, and musty books laid open upon the floor; however, the strongest indicators of the number of occupants were the two mismatched yet complimentary chairs that faced each other by the fireplace. To a casual observer, they would presume that at least two (quite disorganized) men inhabited 221B.

But a keener eye would've noted that all of the cups had sugar crusted inside, that the dishes hadn't found their way to the sink accompanied with some grumbling, that the containers offered no signs of dim sum, and that none of the old books were fiction novels or medical journals. It would be obvious that the plush red and black armchair had been removed due to the visible indentation on the carpet from where it wasn't returned properly to its former position.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to scatter the observations that materialized in his sight. He blinked against the morning light that poured through the window and settled upon the empty armchair. Unable to stop himself, he ran his long fingers over the textured fabric. The cushions that used to hold the scent of Sherlock's flatmate could only whisper traces of him. 

_John..._

The name set Sherlock's nerves alight, spreading from deep within his chest and reaching to every end of his body. He clenched his hand against the back of the chair as his gunshot wound doubled him over in agony. With tears pricking his tired eyes, Sherlock rested his head against the chair and breathed in deeply. The ghost of John's scent ( _Strong tea, soft wool, warm sand, exotic but comforting)_ wrapped around Sherlock's senses, quieting his mind and dulling the pain. He didn't want to rely on the morphine, as it would require him to stay in the hospital even longer.

After all, it had taken him months of tearing down every nurse, doctor, and patient that passed him by before they considered him well enough to heal at home. The longer he was away, the longer he had no bearing on John's mental and emotional states. Was John staying with Harry, or did he decide to rent a temporary room? Or, perhaps, did he choose ( _you chose her_ ) to stay with his “lying wife?”

_Irrelevant, all of it,_ Sherlock thought as he staggered over to his cold and clinical leather chair. Gingerly curling himself onto the wide cushion, he turned his back on John's chair, unable to face the reminder that John did not choose to stay ( _where he belongs_ ) with him.

The sky rejected all light and rumbled with rain as Sherlock finally unfurled himself from his feverish nap. Under his thin dress shirt ( _the complexity of his jumpers_ ), his flesh tightened and raised in protest to the chilled air. The dark room felt cavernous and claustrophobic all at once to Sherlock's fully-rebooted mind.

To combat his oncoming anxiety, he put the fireplace to its intended use. Blue veins formed webs on his shaking hands as he warmed them by the fire, barely resisting the desire to shove them fully inside the flames. If he did succumb to the self-destructive urge, he knew exactly what would occur; he had studied the blistering of skin on multiple occasions ( _Remember, remember, the Fifth of November_ ) and encountered cases with burnt bodies.

Clutching his hands into fists, he strode over to the kitchen and put a kettle on. He cursed as he checked the cabinets and found no clean mug, so he fetched one from the end table by John's chair. In doing so, his hand fell onto the blanket covering the back of the chair. As he tried to stop his fingers from following the red lines patterned onto the soft material, the sound of the door opening downstairs snapped him to attention.

His attuned ears recognized the short gait immediately. The weight of the mug was suddenly too much for his shaking hand, and it dropped to the floor with a heavy thud. He deduced from the sound that the cup was chipped, not shattered, but the mug was certainly the last of Sherlock's concerns, for the gait he knew as being John's sounded disturbed and staggered.

_Injured?_ The word crossed his mind and entered into his vision until it blinded him.

Panic sent Sherlock's neurons into a blast of activity, racing through the information on the identification and emergency treatment of every injury that would still allow John to be struggling up the stairs at that very moment. At the same time, he attempted to deduce John's true ailment.

_Favoring the side that used to have the limp, indicates that he does not currently have one._

_First aid kit in far cabinet in the kitchen._

_He's not making any sounds, he isn't calling out to me, possible injury to the throat?_

_Strangled?_

_Slow-acting poison?_

_Slit throat?_

_Why didn't I buy more supplies!?_

Caught up in his fervor, Sherlock did not realize that he had thrown open the door and called out to John.

“No need to shout,” admonished John, who was clutching a grocery bag in one hand and a fairly large overnight bag in the other. He furrowed his eyebrows when he picked up on Sherlock's distress, “Unless something's wrong?”

After a glance, Sherlock recognized that John was, in fact, uninjured. He chastised himself for foolishly ignoring the now-obvious sounds of bags hitting the walls and bumping against John's muscular, ever-parted thighs. The overnight bag appeared to hold a few nights' worth of clothes, and the other bag was paper and likely contained a six-pack of beer ( _Maybe you like his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking_ ).

“Sherlock? Are you in your mind palace, or is my fly open?” John looked down pointedly at where Sherlock had been staring for a length of time. 

Then, he regarded Sherlock with a confused, narrow-eyed stare of his own, “In either case I'd really like to get in and put my bags down?” His questioning voice was enough to bring Sherlock out of his head.

“Right, of course, come in!” With a small stutter in his first step, Sherlock re-entered the sitting room and took a steady intake of breath. When he heard John close the door behind them and set his bags on the couch, Sherlock let out the air in a long huff through his nostrils. He tried to convince himself that his lack of composure was due to the sudden increase of heat between the hallway and the fire-heated room.

Sherlock gave up quickly. He knew it was futile. He had deduced his feelings for John ( _One more deduction than I intended_ ) at John's wedding, of all times. So, like his deduction of Mary, it came far too late. He could only suffer the consequences.

Once he began hearing the laughter of a chained-up Moriarty, Sherlock knew he had to turn his attention back to John, back to the present.

_John is a guest,_ Sherlock remembered. _Guests should be offered a place to sit. Guests should be offered tea. Guests do not live with you._

Stiffly, Sherlock turned to make the first offer, but he was struck with John's expression. The bags under John's eyes looked bruised, and his brow was tense. His eyes flickered about to take in the room ( _bit different in my day)_ before resting somewhere on Sherlock's chest.

“I know this is sudden, Sherlock, but we have things to discuss,” John stated resolutely.

John adjusted his stance and lifted his head, finally making eye contact. He continued after processing whatever Sherlock's eyes were revealing, “And frankly, I've waited too long to say this.”

Sherlock blinked back the threat of hopeless tears.  _Say something I want to hear, John (Fantastic! That's not what people normally say)._

He crushed the pitiful thought.

John approached Sherlock with careful steps, but stopped altogether to look at the fire. The orange light was reflected in John's eyes; particularly, the inner corners of them were shining.

Without the cold wall to protect himself from his emotions, Sherlock had to feel every ounce of adrenal fear and hormonal desire that coursed through him. The conflict produced a tornado that threatened to destroy any hope in Sherlock's unprotected heart.

With shaking hands, Sherlock gestured that John should sit down while he took off for the kitchen. John nodded, and the men mutually ended their close proximity to each other.

The armchair groaned contentedly as John settled onto it, and the familiar sight took some edge from Sherlock's spinning thoughts.  _A_ _key in its lock, a slide on a microscope, and John in his chair; some things were designed to fit together._

His mind was being uncharacteristically poetic. John's flair for romantic writing had made its mark, for better or for worse.

After some cleaning and pouring, Sherlock returned to his leather chair with two cups of tea. The chair's geometric design and metal frame no longer felt clinical; instead, they drew him in like a magnet. After presenting John with his tea and getting a quiet thanks, Sherlock was able to relax into the soft leather.

“So, uh, mate, have you been bothering Greg for a case now that you're, you know, better?” John resorted to small talk instead of addressing what Sherlock knew was on his mind ( _the elephant in the room, what a surprise_ ). 

Sherlock considered doing a dance around the subject, too. After all, John was initiating a normal conversation, so that might be what he needed. It's a social convention that would, hopefully, lead them into a conversation about important matters.

_Well, John should know better than to come to me for social conventions,_ Sherlock thought before pointing.

“Your hand, John.”

“What does a case have to do with my hand?” John's eyes narrowed at Sherlock as he set his cup down heavily.

Wordlessly, Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around the arms of his chair and smoothly pulled himself and the chair closer to John. Once settled, he reached his right hand out to take John's left one.

“Sherlock, wait -- what are you doing?” John sputtered, but didn't try to pull away as Sherlock lifted John's hand.

“There's no tremor. I've been in the hospital for months, so I've been unavailable for cases. You have a different source of adrenaline keeping your hand from shaking,” Sherlock kept his voice low and even and his eyes on John's hand.

  
He didn't see the color rising in John's face until it was too late. 

“Well, it's not like I'm _bloody bored_! It's pretty exciting to live with an _assassin_!” As John shouted, he crushed Sherlock's hand in his and pulled him even closer.

“One that shot my best friend, no less! _She shot you, Sherlock_!” 

Sherlock weighed the benefits of staying calm and of shouting along with John. When they were living together, Sherlock knew what would appease an angry John. Now, he wasn't so sure, but he knew that didn't have it in him to shout in John's face.

“Yes, she did. And you know about it because I am still alive.” It was a weak consolation, Sherlock knew, so he wasn't surprised when it did little to slow John's spiral into fury.

“Barely! Mary did actually kill you. _Christ_! You were dead, Sherlock, _you were dead_. You bloody flat-lined because _my assassin wife_ shot you,” he hissed and whipped his index finger up to point at Sherlock, “And don't you dare say anything about Mary calling the ambulance and saving you. Did you forget that I'm a doctor? Dispatch would've told me that someone had already called it in! So, what was that whole show really about that night?”

“I admit, I did fabricate most of that deduction,” Sherlock's eyes flickered away from John's hard stare.

“You were playing her and you played me too. Now, the question is, when did you plan on telling me the truth?” John threw Sherlock's hand aside and backed away into his chair. A moment of realization passed over John's face before he exploded forward and grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt. 

“ _You bastard_! You were never going to tell me the truth, were you?”

John's grip tightened, and Sherlock winced as his wound throbbed in protest. Quickly noting it, John released Sherlock and sighed.

“I'm sorry.” 

“I said what I had to at the time, John.”

  
“I know,” John closed his eyes as the tension visibly drained from his limbs. 

“I could tell you everything now, if you'd like?” Sherlock offered, but John stood up and shuffled to the kitchen.

“Later, perhaps. Have you eaten anything recently?” John didn't bother waiting for an answer before he opened the refrigerator. “No body parts? That's a change. Maybe dating Janine was a good idea after all.”

Sherlock followed John until he was standing at the entryway to the kitchen. He opened his mouth to begin the explanation despite the obvious attempt at a subject change, but John sent Sherlock a tired look that made him relent.

“My reputation would not agree with you,” Sherlock commented as he went into the cabinets and pulled out two bowls. Mrs. Hudson had given Sherlock a casserole at some point, so John pulled it out of the refrigerator. He left the kitchen long enough to retrieve a can of beer from the case he brought with him.

“That's right, I forgot about the interviews,” John remarked, then let out a strained laugh, “You seem to have enjoyed your plan to get into Magnussen's office a bit much.”

“I only did what was necessary,” Sherlock shrugged before pushing himself up to sit on the counter.

“I get that it was for the work, Sherlock, but even you have to recognize that there's something inherently wrong with having sex with someone you've been lying to from day one?” 

John scowled immediately at his own comment, but it took a moment for Sherlock to make the unfortunate connection. When he finally recognized the similarities between himself and Mary, Sherlock coughed uncomfortably.

“Janine wasn't opposed to the idea, apparently. She told me so during her hospital visit,” Sherlock tossed out off-hand. He was steering the conversation back to Janine, sensing that John didn't want to discuss Mary's dubious morality just then.

John unexpectedly stopped all food preparation so he could stare straight at Sherlock.

“She gets tabloids to write all about how you two shagged, and yet you think she wasn't opposed in any way?” John shook his head and scoffed, but he didn't take his eyes from Sherlock. 

“That was merely her revenge. She has quite the imagination,” Sherlock explained, though he was unsure as to why John appeared confused enough to need an explanation.

“Her imagination? Not much imagination was needed if you did it at least once.”

“Did what, exactly?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and the look was mirrored by John.

“Well, you were dating her for nearly a month. You had to have . . . just once?”

The blush that colored John's cheeks and ears took Sherlock by surprise. Once he processed it, though, he realized what words John had omitted.

“Are you asking if Janine and I ever had sex? Now who's the nosy one?” Sherlock smirked.

In the past, John would often return after seeing his girlfriend  _du jour_ with the telltale signs of having shagged her. Sherlock would list the signs to John as a punishment for leaving him alone and bored. Without fail, John would chastise Sherlock by calling him a “nosy bastard.”

The tables may have turned, but Sherlock still had no experience to show for it.

“Just answer the damn question,” John demanded impatiently.

“I didn't,” answered Sherlock as he pushed himself off the counter and approached John.

John cocked his head and regarded Sherlock from a new angle.

“You didn't?” He pressed his lips in a tight line and shook his head, giving a clear indication that he wanted Sherlock to clarify.

“Correct. I did not.”

“Okay,” as his lips relaxed, the corner of John's mouth quirked up, “That's all you needed to say. So, the tabloids were entirely false. Right. Good.”

A few early memories started surfacing in Sherlock's mind, but he promptly filed them back in their places.

After a quick nod, John resumed his task of heating up Mrs. Hudson's casserole. They shared dinner in a buzzing silence with their eyes frequently meeting across the table. On one such occasion, Sherlock started the conversation he knew John was there to have.

“You're wondering what my plan is for Mary. The truth is-”

“Sherlock, don't you dare, you can't--”

“I don't have one, John,” The admission silenced John, which allowed Sherlock to continue.

“The night you found out about Mary, I understood that there were multiple ways for both of you to take the shock. There were sixty scenarios at a minimum I had to consider, though that number was cut drastically when she decided to come quietly.”

Sherlock rose and began pacing around the kitchen.

“I also had to take into account your reaction to the information in my false deductions. The fact stands that we don't know her intentions. Perhaps she truly has feelings for you. Or, perhaps, you are a target. Regardless, she needed to stay placated so that she wouldn't run away, never to be heard from again, before we could identify her intent.”

The words flew from his tongue as gracefully as any of his deductive monologues, but the emotions that each sentence pulled from Sherlock were enough to send him out of the kitchen and back into his chair. He pulled his violin out of the case next to him and began plucking at the strings, the notes forming a distressed melody.

John rushed out in pursuit, only stopping when he was hovering over Sherlock.

“Oh, so that was your game. You were giving her a good enough excuse so she could, what, fend me off?” John spoke quietly through gritted teeth, “Sherlock, I would not attack a pregnant woman, criminal or not!”

“No offense meant,” Sherlock raised an open palm towards John as a meager shield against the expected onslaught of aggression, “Though I wasn't lying about your attraction to danger. That's the main reason why I don't have a plan formulated already.”

John's jaw visibly tightened as he stared Sherlock down. Sherlock protected his violin, worried that John was going to re-enact Sherlock's first night back from the dead. Instead, John sank down into his armchair.

“I won't deny it, fine, but how the hell is that relevant to your plans?” John grimaced and clutched at the cushions under his hands.

Sherlock resumed playing, but the tune had morphed into the one he composed during his case for the Woman.

“There happens to be one aspect of human nature that you and The Woman have demonstrated to me, and it is that desperation can drive even morally upstanding people to commit a crime,” Sherlock murmured, but he knew his lowered voice would still reach John.

“Irene Adler shagged powerful people and took pictures for blackmail,” John quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock, giving the expression that Sherlock commonly saw John wearing when he couldn't follow a deduction.

“Well, I never claimed she was a shining example of morality, though I doubt such an example exists, but I digress. Ultimately, we were never presented with the information necessary to fully understand The Woman's motive,” Sherlock abruptly stopped playing so he could lean closer to John, “Now, you did choose Mary. If we determine that her motive behind marrying you wasn't an elaborate assassination plot, then there is still the chance that you will keep the choice you made.”

“Are you being serious? I don't know how many times I have to say it, but she shot you and she lied to me. Even if I knew her motive, how could I forgive her?” John's hands clenched into fists, but his eyes were pleading and soft as he looked at Sherlock.

It took some shaky breathing, but Sherlock forced out what needed to be said even though it could keep John out of his reach forever.

“I lied to you for two years, John. Yet, somehow, you forgave me. So, if you find that you can also forgive her for lying, I will follow suit by forgiving her for shooting me.” 

As he made this promise ( _my first and last vow_ ), Sherlock could feel the dread settle in his stomach.

“Okay. I see. That's the plan, then? Innocent until proven guilty?” John rubbed his palm against his haggard face.

“We forgive her, then we find out if we can trust her. If her motive checks out, then you two can raise your family. You certainly won't succumb to the boredom of having an average suburban life. After all, your wife was an assassin.” Sherlock swallowed against the bitterness rising in his throat, hoping that John didn't notice his slight change in tone.

Sherlock did not dare let his mask slip. He could not make the same mistake twice, not like he did on that dance floor.

John averted his gaze and sat still, his expression hardening into the steely resolve of a soldier. He lifted his hips and retrieved a small object from his back pocket. He presented the object, Mary's memory stick, to Sherlock.

“If we're looking for a motive, then this might be where to find it,” John concluded with a curt nod.

“Think about the situation objectively. If you read the contents, Mary will know immediately and flee. You will lose her, your child, and any chance we had at capturing her. An assassin knows how to disappear,” Sherlock said as he slipped easily into detective-mode.

“Even if I don't read it, she will assume I did!” Exasperated, John clenched a fist around the memory stick and fell back into his chair.

“She doesn't need to assume anything, not when she can simply read the truth written all over you,” Sherlock emphasized himself with a sweeping gesture towards all of John.

“Yes, I get it, Sherlock. I'm a bad liar and everyone apparently knows it.” John's grip on the memory stick threatened to destroy their hopes of ever reading it. 

“It's only important that Mary knows it.” Sherlock stopped himself from prying the memory stick out of harm's way.

“Not me, then, but someone has to know about this bloody A.G.R.A.!” John opened his palm and glared at Mary's real initials.

“As much as I hate to suggest it, perhaps it would be better if we gave this to Mycroft?” Sherlock proposed.

Indeed, he hated the idea of involving Mycroft in his plans for Mary, but Sherlock knew that his work against Moriarty earned him a favor or two from his brother.

“No. I don't want to involve him unless we're facing the worst-case scenario. There is only one option,” John reached out his hand to take Sherlock's, squeezing the long fingers tightly. When he pulled away, Sherlock was left holding the memory stick. “Please, Sherlock, I know it's a lot to ask, but –-”

“I will read it. It's the best plan we have available to us. It also coincides with my initial plans to stop Magnussen.” Though his words never faltered, Sherlock was unable to close his hand around the memory stick.

“Magnussen knows about Mary's past, doesn't he?” John crossed his arms as he made the inquiry.

“Yes, he does, and that is the first of many reasons why I have chosen to stop him. In regards to our plans for Mary, it will serve its purpose either way. If she's a threat, it will lull her into a false sense of security. If you choose to remain with her, then she will be safe,” As his mind began to form every possible scenario, Sherlock slid the memory stick into his pocket. 

“It's a win-win,” agreed John. He rose from his chair and clenched his fists. “I'll work on trying to forgive her, then.”

“Prepare a speech. Lies are often prepared, so a speech will sound identical. Of course, you will have to tell her it's prepared,” suggested Sherlock as he crossed his slim legs and rested his fingertips against his chin.

“Does it have to be a lie?” As John spoke, he looked towards the chipped mug on the floor. With a quiet grumble, he took it to the sink and began to wash it. His thumb experimentally passed over the ragged edge of the chip. It didn't cut him, so he continued to rub until the gritty surface was smoothed away.

“Unless you think you can forgive her by Christmas?” Sherlock's voice was heavily laced with doubt.

“But that's next week!” John exclaimed as he set the mug down on the counter.

“Yes, and you and Mary are invited to spend Christmas with my family.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a text to John with a few flicks of his thumb.

“You have the address now,” Sherlock alerted John as John's phone did the same.

“Don't you think it's a bit last minute?” John gave up on getting an answer when he saw Sherlock in his thinking pose.

“As for the memory stick, I will either provide you with a duplicate to destroy in front of Mary, or you will have the real one.” Sherlock added the related possibilities to his exponentially-growing list.

“We'll clear up the plan together after you read what's on the damn thing.” John stretched and yawned as he left the kitchen.

“Right. I'd like to start immediately. Go to bed.” Sherlock made his demand as he sprung up from his chair. He opened his laptop swiftly and entered his password once it awoke.

“As nice as that sounds,” John yawned again, so he covered his mouth with a hand, “I was going to take the couch. I doubt Mrs. Hudson has dusted my room in ages.”

“Don't bother with it. You can sleep in my room. I'll have no need for it tonight.” Sherlock cursed when a few useless windows decided to appear on the screen. He slipped the memory stick out of his pocket, and he turned it in his hand a few times before inserting it into the USB port.

John spent a moment looking between Sherlock and the open door to Sherlock's room. Clearing his throat, he picked up his overnight bag from the couch and marched through the kitchen. He stopped and turned back to Sherlock before entering the bedroom.

“Just so we're clear,” John straightened his back and didn't continue until Sherlock made eye contact.

“Hm?”

“I'm letting you make the plan, but when the time comes, let me handle Mary. Even if it means killing her, Sherlock, I want you to leave her to me.”

Sherlock registered, despite his distance to John, the tears brimming in his best friend's eyes; no sight had ever taken Sherlock out of work-mode faster. It was a marvel of willpower to not cross that distance and comfort John in a language Sherlock had nearly forgotten.

But he could only ask, “Are you sure?”

And John answered, “As her husband, it will be my privilege.”

With that, John disappeared behind the bedroom door, leaving Sherlock to decide Mary's fate.

The low fire cast a warm glow over the plush red and black armchair, and it was reflected by the metal frame of the leather chair. The seats were centimeters from touching. They bore the imprint of their previous occupants: two men who sat together in 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock sank against red and black cushions and worked until dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading my fic! It's been so long since I've written, and this was hard to get out. If I could bother you to write a comment or just leave kudos, I'd really appreciate it. And if you didn't like the style, don't worry, because it was really hard to write so I probably won't do it again unless it's somehow really well received. So, check out what I write next, and see if you like it better?
> 
>  
> 
> I hope no one was upset that they weren't explicitly together at the end, but I had the desire to make a canon compliant story, so we'll have to wait and see! This will also be the last non-explicit fic I write. It was so difficult to not shove some smut in here so I could have fun with it, but I was determined to write something that could fit in those "Maryless Months" in His Last Vow. Hopefully I accomplished that! Thanks again!


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